Locks of Hair and Ashes
by Diary
Summary: "Then, it was all a waste of time," she answers. "That doesn't mean I was wrong." Complete.


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

* * *

When informed Neville Longbottom is dead, Luna Lovegood nods and wordlessly wanders away.

Her friends assume she needs time alone, and they do not stop her. Nor does her father, though, he understands his daughter and her actions far better than they do. Instead, he simply waits until they have left and packs a small daypack with an undetectable expansion on it. Inside is non-perishable food, cans of pumpkin juice, a peacock quill and ink well, a camera, a sketchbook, and a purse of money.

Then, he goes to find her.

She is in a small, abandoned barn, wearing her Spectrespecs and weaving hay together when he does.

"Are you sure, my little moon," he inquires, sitting down next to her.

"Yes," she answers, her voice steady despite its natural airiness. Setting the hay down, she withdraws her wand, and with one steady motion, her long, wavy hair hits the ground, the remaining locks uneven above her ears and off her neck, sticking up oddly, more frizzy than before. As he gathers the fallen locks, she explains, "You didn't know what had happened, but when Mum died, you knew something had. I don't feel that."

He nods. Pocketing the hair, he kisses her on the forehead, depositing the daypack in her lap. "I wish you luck, then, but always know you have a place to come back to."

"I love you, Dad," she says, giving him a sincere smile.

Once he departs, she finishes her weaving, a crown the finished product, and leaves it on the ground as she walks away.

Walk she does, visiting fields and forests, gardens and nurseries. She sits for hours, talking to stalks of corn, lone flowers, pots of plants, and bushes of roses. In diners and post offices, muggle and magical alike, she shows sketches to anyone willing to talk to her. A round-faced boy with timid, confused eyes, a gaunt-faced man with excess skin and hard, grim eyes, his frame never meant to support such little weight, bruises on his face, and a grown man, tall and sturdy with strong, warm eyes, a ring on his left ring finger. "He wouldn't be wearing the ring," she tells them, staring unblinkingly.

Some chase her away, and others pat her sympathetically, giving her food and, sometimes, small trinkets. There are too many little boys wandering around who bear a resemble to the first sketch, most people cringe away from the second, some drawn to it by morbid fascination, and no one has seen the man in the last sketch.

"Lost love, dear," a sympathetic hag who gives her a room to stay in during a thundering storm inquires.

"Yes," Luna answers. "But not permanently."

Sighing, the hag nods, pouring her some more hot chocolate.

She continues on, occasionally finding an owl and sending something to her father, a sketch, a rock, one of the trinkets given to her, something small but easily identifiable in regards to the sender.

A little after a year and half of searching, her hair is the same length as when she began. Closing her eyes, she feels her body converting itself into pale blue mist, travelling through the air over places visited, retracing the steps her physical feet made. She opens her eyes a bit too soon, stumbling and falling face-first on her father's kitchen floor, knocking down a teacup on the counter as she does so.

Xenophilius appears as she is standing up. "My Luna," he says.

Extending her arms, she hugs him.

"How long will you stay?" When the hug is broken, he leans down and repairs the cup, setting it back onto the counter.

Weak from the fever which was been slowly building, she faints rather than answering.

Two weeks later, the fever breaks, and she takes to sitting at the pond, feet dangling in the water as she paints. People come to talk to her, all worried and sympathetic, some exasperated. The only exception is George Weasley, who gives her a Weasley's Deluxe kit. "You're sure, aren't you?"

"Yes," she answers.

"What if you're wrong and it was all a waste of time?"

"Then, it was all a waste of time," she answers. "That doesn't mean I was wrong."

He nods, sitting with her until the sun starts to set. When it does, he leads her back to her house and kisses her cheek before leaving.

Two days later, a goblin from Azkaban comes. "Rabastian Lestrange is dead," he informs them, waving away Xenophilius's offer of tea and biscuits. "He left something for Miss Lovegood in his will."

"Why would he do such a thing," Xenophilius inquires as Luna's hands rapidly take to her sketchbook. When she is finished, she shows her father, a scene of a plump tot with a gummy grin, hand on the stomach of a wrinkly, protuberant-eyed baby. In the background is a dead woman with crimped hair, lying on the ground, a peaceful smile on her face, and further away, a plump, kind-eyed woman clutches a tall, strong-built man as shadowy figures surround the couple, Rabastian Lestrange standing out sharply among them.

Recoiling, the goblin deliberately looks at the floor. "If your daughter could sign for it," he says, stiffly.

Luna does, using a sparkly blue pen rather than a quill.

Handing a box over along with a key, the goblin hastily departs.

When she opens the box, she finds a butterbeer cap on a simple string. Turning it over, the words inscribed on the back read, _A symbol of the part of my soul, body, and mind I pledge to you, Neville Argyle Longbottom. Always and forever, Luna Beatrice Lovegood. _

Gently, she puts the necklace on, summoning a ring from her room. It's a simple gold band, much too big for any of her fingers. Inside the band is the inscription, _Alice Patricia Longbottom-1976, Neville Argyle Longbottom-1980, Frank Allergo Longbottom-1991, Luna Beatrice Lovegood-1996_.

She slips the too-big ring on her left middle finger, and a soft glow emits from both ring and necklace. Looking at her father, who gives her a resigned, supportive look, Luna takes a trembling breath and brings her shaking hand up to the necklace.

As soon as the ring touches the cap, she finds herself finding in front of a small cottage.

At her knock, a goblin opens the door. "Yes?"

"My name is Luna Lovegood," she says.

"Ah," the goblin says, nodding. "I was wondering if you'd ever show up. Come in."

She's led to a small room, and on the floor, pouring dirt from one hand to another, sits Neville Longbottom. Physically, he's healthy, all scars vanished, body back to its proper shape, but as she kneels down and he looks at her, his eyes are timid and confused, uncomprehending of who she is.

"I call him Elm," the goblin says from the doorway. "The human who delivered him told me a witch named Luna Lovegood would come one day and that it was vital I keep him from others until then. He has a green thumb."

Tears silently falling, she nods, reaching over and stilling Neville's left wrist. He opens his hands, letting most of the dirt fall to the ground, and as he wipes her tear-stained face awkwardly with his still dirty right hand, she slips the ring onto his left ring finger.

Taking a breath, she digs out her DA coin.

* * *

"It isn't as bad as his parents' case," a healer tells Augusta Longbottom. "However, there's no guarantee."

Despite several different offers of people willing and able to take care of him, Augusta decides to have him permanently admitted to St. Mungo's.

Luna spends most of her days there, drawing pictures on the walls and ceiling, helping him with his plants, and simply sitting and talking to him. `Sometimes, she reads him articles from The Quibbler, and other times, she shows him pictures of their friends and family.

One day, she comes to find him pacing, his food and potted garden untouched. Gently, she reaches out to touch him. "Neville, what's wrong?"

Startled, he turns and glares at a copy of the Daily Prophet, thrown in the corner, purple liquid she recognises as lavender syrup forming a semi-circle around it. Skipping over, Luna picks up the paper and immediately sees the problem. "It's okay," she says, firm but gentle, walking over to him. "This," she says, holding the picture up, ignoring his hiss, "is Bellatrix Lestrange; she's been dead for over two years. She hurt you very badly, and the damage will never fully go away. But she can never hurt your mother and father further."

The paper catches fire in her hands, and she lets go, holding it in the air as ashes fall to the floor. When it is all gone, she vanishes the ashes and holds her burnt hands up for him to see.

He frowns and sits her down on his bed while he instinctively goes for the plants some part of him knows will heal them.

* * *

"Luna," he says one night while she is sewing together the discarded leaves he pruned.

Startled, she looks up and sees uncertain comprehension in his eyes as he looks at her. "Yes," she says, sliding across the floor, over to him. "I'm Luna."

Repressing the strong desire to expand, she asks instead, "What else do you know? Remember?"

He kisses her, and she sighs in pleasure before moving away, tears beginning to fall.

* * *

The process is slow, marred with occasional setbacks, but within a few months, Neville Longbottom is himself again.

"He had me in a body-bind," Neville tells Luna the day he's scheduled to be released. "He said, 'I owe you a debt.' And then- Then, I looked up, and you were there." Chuckling softly, he looks at their clasped hands. "I was lost, but you found me."

"Go on, then," she says, encouragingly.

"Over three years, Luna," he says, letting out a breath of helpless self-hatred. "You could have had a life, found happiness. Why?"

"Always pursue that which makes you truly happy," she answers, bringing up his hands and kissing them. "I could have moved on, yes, and I believe I would have eventually been content. But that wasn't enough for me. You shared your body with me, and I shared mine with you. You hold a piece of my soul, and I hold a piece of yours. That night before we were separated, even with all the horrible things surrounding us, I was truly happy. Being with you made me that way. No person could ever make me that happy, and as long as there was still a chance of that happiness, I had a responsibility to myself to pursue it, no matter how difficult or painful."

Bringing his hand up to cup her cheek, the ring softly pressing against it, he leans over and kisses her. "I love you. It's probably not a good idea to do it right away, but what would make me truly happy is if you'd marry me."

"You know that you don't even have to ask," she answers, pulling his face back to hers.


End file.
